On her soul, a baleful dower,
Thus been shed?

Oh! in those deep-seeing eyes,
No strange gift of mystery lies!
She is lone where once she moved,
Fair, and happy, and beloved!

Sunny smiles were glancing round her,
Tendrils of kind hearts had bound her.
Now those silver chords are broken,
Those bright looks have left no token;
Not one trace on all the earth,
Save her memory of their mirth.
She is lone and lingering now,
Dreams have gather'd o'er her brow,
'Midst gay songs and children's play,
She is dwelling far away,

Seeing what none else may see-
Haunted still her place must be!

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS.

"God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in freedom's cause

A spirit to his rocks akin,

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!"

SINGING of the free blue sky,
And the wild-flower glens that lie
Far amidst the ancient hills,
Which the fountain music fills;
Singing of the snow-peaks bright
And the royal eagle's flight,

COLERIDGE.

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS.

And the courage and the grace
Foster'd by the chamois-chase;
In his fetters, day by day,
So the Shepherd-poet lay,
Wherefore, from a dungeon-cell
Did those notes of freedom swell,
Breathing sadness not their own,
Forth with every Alpine tone?
Wherefore!-can a tyrant's ear
Brook the mountain-winds to hear,
When each blast goes pealing by
With a song of liberty?

Darkly hung th' oppressor's hand
O'er the Shepherd-poet's land;
Sounding there the waters gush'd,
While the lip of man was hush'd;
There the falcon pierced the cloud,
While the fiery heart was bow'd:
But this might not long endure,
Where the mountain-homes were pure;
And a valiant voice arose,

Thrilling all the silent snows;

His-now singing far and lone,

Where the young breeze ne'er was known;
Singing of the glad blue sky,
Wildly-and how mournfully!

Are none but the Wind and the Lammer-Geyer To be free where the hills unto heaven aspire? Is the soul of song from the deep glens past, Now that their poet is chain'd at last?

245

Think of the mountains! and deem not so! Soon shall each blast like a clarion blow! Yes! though forbidden be every word Wherewith that spirit the Alps hath stirr'd, Yet even as a buried stream through earth Rolls on to another and brighter birth,

So shall the voice that hath seem'd to die, Burst forth with the anthem of liberty!

And another power is moving
In a bosom fondly loving:-
Oh; a sister's heart is deep,
And her spirit strong to keep
Each light link of early hours,
All sweet scents of childhood's flowers!
Thus each lay by Erni sung,
Rocks and crystal caves among,
Or beneath the linden-leaves,
Or the cabin's vine-hung eaves,
Rapid though as bird-notes gushing,
Transient as a wan cheek's flushing,
Each in young Teresa's breast
Left its fiery words impress'd;
Treasured there lay every line,
As a rich book on a hidden shrine.
Fair was that lone girl, and meek,
With a pale transparent cheek,
And a deep-fringed violet eye
Seeking in sweet shade to lie,
Or, if raised to glance above,
Dim with its own dews of love;

THE SHEPHERD-POET OF THE ALPS.

247

And a pure, Madonna brow,

And a silvery voice, and low,

Like the echo of a flute,

Even the last, ere all be mute.

But a loftier soul was seen

In the orphan sister's mien,

From that hour when chains defiled
Him, the high Alps' noble child.
Tones in her quivering voice awoke,
As if a harp of battle spoke;

Light, that seem'd born of an eagle's nest,
Flash'd from her soft eyes unrepress'd;

And her form, like a spreading water-flower,
When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower,
Seem'd all dilated with love and pride,

And grief for that brother, her young heart's guide. Well might they love!-those two had grown Orphans together and alone:

The silence of the Alpine sky

Had hush'd their hearts to piety;

The turf, o'er their dead mother laid,
Had been their altar when they pray'd;
There, more in tenderness than woe,
The stars had seen their young tears flow;
The clouds, in spirit-like descent,

Their deep thoughts by one touch had blent,
And the wild storms link'd them to each other-

How dear can peril make a brother!
Now is their hearth a forsaken spot,

The vine waves unpruned o'er their mountain-cot.
Away, in that holy affection's might,

The maiden is gone, like a breeze of the night;

But his dreams were fill'd by a haunting tone,
Sad as a sleeping infant's moan;

And his soul was pierced by a mournful eye,
Which look'd on it-oh! how beseechingly!
And there floated past him a fragile form,
With a willowy droop, as beneath the storm;
Till wakening in anguish, his faint heart strove
In vain with its burden of helpless love!

-Thus woke the dreamer one weary nightThere flash'd thro' his dungeon a swift strong light;

He sprang up-he climb'd to the grating-bars,

-It was not the rising of moon or stars,

But a signal flame from a peak of snow,
Rock'd through the dark skies, to and fro!
There shot forth another-another still-
A hundred answers of hill to hill!

Tossing like pines in the tempest's way,
Joyously, wildly, the bright spires play,
And each is hail'd with a pealing shout,
For the high Alps waving their banners out!
Erni, young Erni! the land hath risen!

Alas! to be lone in thy narrow prison!

Those free streamers glancing, and thou not there! -Is the moment of rapture, or fierce despair? -Hark! there's a tumult that shakes his cell,

At the gates of the mountain citadel!

Hark! a clear voice through the rude sounds ringing! Doth he know the strain, and the wild, sweet singing?

"There may not long be fetters,

Where the cloud is earth's array,

And the bright floods leap from cave and steep, Like a hunter on the prey!